All the gold of Harad
by phyloxena
Summary: Aragorn travels in South again; perhaps he at some point tried to locate Blue Wizards. A messenger reached Rivendell; Elrond got the intelligence, of course, and Arwen got some ugly earrings and was as happy as a seven-year-old with a mood ring.


Arwen received from the messenger a small leather bundle, thanked him and hid it in a sleeve. She was ever a gracious hostess. The man was tired, could have been nothing but tired, hungry and dirty: there was no settlement, no place for a comfortable night and hot food in a week's travel distance. Anyone who set his foot on a doorstep of Last Homely House was a welcome guest. Through the lunch and afternoon bustle she felt the secretive weight of the parcel and wondered what it hid. She wasn't worried: any bad news she needed to know would have been spoken before. Any bad news she needed to know she would have known herself.

At last, she excused herself, and closed the door of her room. Large open windows let in sun and wind alike, shadows lengthened, and noises of house and forest blended and slowly died away in the evening stillness. Curiously, she unwrapped the parcel and let something slid out of it. There were large gold earrings, half-moon shaped and fringed with short fine chains along the curve. The shape appeared crude, as if the jeweler didn't care for the metal, didn't ask it, what it wanted to be, but the blades of the moons were inset with small bright blue gems, placed in an intricate pattern and polished with love and care. Even more curious, she pulled out the folded letter.

It was written on something rough, like cloth or birch bark, in strong, graceful shorthand with toll ascendents and clear, breathing openings under the arches of uncials. Careful, precise placement of dots and tildes spoke of endless still hours of calligraphy, for all that this missive could have been written on horseback, and Arwen laughed softly, thinking of a young man who just got freedom of these lessons, and of the boy she never saw.

"Dearest, I am very well, miss you every second, safe for now and planning to stay so for some time. I had an unexpected chance to send you this letter; your beauty needs no embellishment, certainly not of the crude southern gold, but my tale needs an illustration. I am a blind fortune teller here. Firstly, I thought it was a clever way to conceal my northern looks, but it turned out even cleverer. These poor folks, those souls turned sad and crooked by the close Shadow, have great faith in foretelling, for all that they turned it into an uninspired craft" -

Arwen glanced at the jewelry -

"and it never predicts any lasting happiness. Which is, alas, true of the foresight of my race as well. Also, they harbor a particular superstitious awe towards any deformity; my messenger here thinks it is a manifestation of their evil nature, but I believe that this is how mercy and compassion work, in a twisted way, through the evil life they have. So, I am a very respected cripple, and as such have a good access around the town. The second wife of a lordling I am spying on came to a few days ago and asked if she carried a son or a daughter. I haven't seen the women: she trusted me to be blind. The future child is a girl, which usually isn't good news here; to my surprise, the woman cried with relief and wowed were it a boy she'd killed him now herself, not rise to feed to the furnaces of war. However terrible was her speech, her happiness was true; she gave me these earrings for the good news. And I felt blessed, too, to know about a new child I will never have to face across the sword. They are men, not beasts, not monsters, their nature is a nature of men; I wish it was within my power to spare them war. This is not to be. Even now they pledge themselves to the only power they know, through reluctantly (in which reluctance my dire predictions play some part - but not as great as I wish). Hope they know not. Beloved, don't cast these ornaments aside. Try them on. If our hope is true, you are the Queen of men. After the shadow is downcast, we'll have to make peace with these, to extend our friendship. Feel their weighty blessing, their toil and aspiration, error of their ways. And rest assured - no magic of whatever kind ever touched this naive metal. I love you, always love you. A."

The rest of the page held a few economical sketches of men and women in pleated, patterned clothes, and a postscript: "This paper is made out of reed by slicing the stalks, weaving them cloth-like and beating together. With reed so abundant you'd think they had libraries! Have yet to discover one."

She did try them on: heavy, barbaric, and hardly matching anything she wore, they brought out bright red of her lips and slight, hardly perceptible slant of her eyes. She though of a lynx, and, briefly, how peculiar was it that the thought felt nearly improper - while great heroes of both races were compared to eagles, or even wolves - or lyons, her love told her when they first truly met. He sketched great cats with absurd manes, and even greater ones - tigers, he said, they were like flames in the thickets, black and orange and terrible, but graceful and fascinating. How she envied him! How she believed, how she wished to believe that one day - after many toils and great losses, but one day she might, too, see some of the great lands beyond the shadow. After the shadow cast down, my love...

At the dinner Arwen sat very still in her dark blue gown: every time she moved her head, little chains chimed and rang in her ears, and the weight of the moons was unfamiliar and rather unwelcome.


End file.
